A stream burbled across the western edge of the clearing, the water cutting deeply into the soft earth, so that the horses had to be led carefully down its steep banks. Ardyl and Banek had not yet led theirs to drink.
Because they were waiting for her. Ardyl had already singled out the roan, holding it ready to saddle.
Which Yvenne would not be doing alone, she realized the moment she stepped up beside the mare. Though this mount was not as tall as the full-blooded Parsathean horses, it was much taller than her gelding had been—and to lift the seat onto that horse’s back, she had always needed a stone or a stump to step upon. There was nothing of the like here.
Lips flattened in irritation, she looked to Ardyl for help.
The warrior grinned as she took the heavy saddle and easily set it into place.
With the strain upon her shoulders and back relieved, Yvenne let out a long breath, then rolled her neck from side to side. As soon as Ardyl stepped aside, she moved forward again, stalks crunching beneath her sandals. Banek had made her practice tying the cinch strap repeatedly during her first days upon the gelding, and she did again under his watchful eye. The process of making the leather knot, walking the horse a few steps, then tightening the cinch again was so familiar now, however, that she need not give it her full attention.
“What do you think happened here, that these grasses are stamped into the ground?”
The older warrior answered, “It was a bed for a family of mirens.”
Armored reptiles with hammerlike tails. Yvenne had seen trails broken through the grass where the reptiles had crossed the road but had not yet laid eyes on one. Though they were large animals, they weren’t tall and remained concealed within the grass.
Many dangers lurked between the stalks. Which was why Ardyl would accompany Yvenne when she relieved herself.
Because she was not yet a warrior-queen. Throat aching, she pulled hard upon the leather.
Beside her, Banek continued, “In the autumn, when the great herds move through, not a blade of grass will be left standing. They strip this plain to the soil.”
“And Temra be merciful to anyone traveling upon this road then,” Ardyl added with a laugh. “They are more likely to be trampled beneath a fanhead’s feet than reach Drahm.”
So they would take the road on the northern side of the Ageras instead. Yes. Yvenne knew all of that.
But there was something she didn’t know. In a thick voice, she asked, “Are Parsatheans allowed to speak lies if it is in jest?”
The amusement on Ardyl’s face vanished into a frown of displeasure. “There is no joke in a lie. It dishonors the speaker and insults the listener.”
“Oh.” Hope and happiness filled Yvenne’s breast, yet the confusion remained. She was not a warrior-queen yet. Did Maddek truly mean to make her one, then?
How?
Even Yvenne’s mother and younger brother, the two people who believed in her most and loved her best, had never suggested the possibility. In their tower, Queen Vyssen had made her run and exercise her muscles, had shown her how to conceal a knife within her robes, but never had Yvenne’s lessons extended beyond that. Given the weakness of Yvenne’s body, her mother had often said that her mind was her best weapon. So they had focused on sharpening her brain and her tongue instead of sharpening blades.
Ran Ashev had put a bow into her hands and taught her to use it, true. If she’d ever intended to teach Yvenne more, however, she’d never spoken of it. They’d only spoken of the single arrow that would fly from Yvenne’s bow and facilitate Ran Ashev’s escape. Yet Yvenne had dreamed of more arrows, and of being free—and using that bow to defend herself and her people. She needed no great strength for that. Only strength enough to draw a bowstring.
Then her father had cut off her fingers and severed any hope she had of using that weapon again.
Maddek knew of her weakness. He knew of her missing fingers. He knew of her shattered knee. Yet still he claimed that a warrior-queen could be made of her?
Even knowing he always spoke truth, she hardly dared believe it.
Perhaps Banek sensed her turmoil, for he was studying her face with concern deepening the lines beside his eyes. “Why do you ask, my lady?”
This newer doubt and pain had too sharp an edge, so she choose the pain that had already dulled. “That first eve, I told you all that I had never ridden a horse. None of you believed me. Yet you did not respond as if you were insulted by a lie. Instead you laughed, as if I had been making fun.”
Except for Maddek, whose laughter had been cruel and mocking. Because he had immediately understood that she spoke the truth.
“Ah!” Now Ardyl’s face cleared. “If it is something that everyone knows cannot be true, that can be a joke. There is no deception if a truth is well known.”
And to a Parsathean, the idea that someone might have never sat upon a horse was unbelievable. It could only be a joke.
So, too, would be making a warrior-queen of Yvenne.
The crushing disappointment within her chest threatened to fold her over, but she hid that pain in the task of untying her wineskin from the saddle.
Behind her, Banek confirmed, “Such it is. If someone were to say your father was a fine king, everyone would know it for a joke.”
Yvenne forced herself to answer. “And if the speaker meant it?”
“Then we would know him for a fool,” Ardyl replied. “Either way, it is good for a laugh.”
Was that why Maddek had said it, then? Had he been trying to humor her? On the heels of his apology, perhaps he had been trying to make amends. For certain, on this day she had not sensed any cruelty in him—and he could not know how making of a joke of it could hurt her so badly. She had joked of it herself at the ruins. Perhaps he’d wished to return to the ease they’d found then, before the blood wraiths had come.
But when he’d given her a warrior’s lesson this morn, she had thought he might be telling the truth. She’d wanted to believe he was.
Yet making a warrior-queen of her was something no one could believe. Instead, her hope only marked her as a fool.
Well. It would not be the first time. Or likely the last.
Ardyl remained at her side as Banek led the horses to the stream. Standing upon the opposite bank was Maddek, sun gleaming over his dark skin. With a short blade, he scythed through handfuls of tall grass before tossing the fresh stalks to Toric, who cut away the tough, fibrous stem from the tender leaves near the top, which the horses could more easily eat. So quickly they worked that in the time it had taken Yvenne to saddle her roan, they had already harvested enough feed for each horse.
Maddek tucked away his blade. In a single mighty leap that filled Yvenne with both awe and envy, he cleared the stream. Lightly, as if his feet bore feathers instead of his massive weight, he landed upon the near bank in a crouch, the outer length of his red linens flaring wide before settling around his powerful legs.